feel we're close enough (could i lock in your love?)
by swishandflickwit
Summary: Gilbert builds Anne a tree house. Gilbert-centric, Shirbert future fic.


**Playlist**

 **Sea of Lovers - Christina Perri**

 **Clocks - Coldplay**

 **Promise - Ben Howard**

 **Latch (Cover) - Natalie Taylor**

* * *

"I need to show you something," he said. "Can I take you somewhere?"

She raised a skeptical brow at him, and he laughed though it was the very last thing he wanted to do. He could feel an icy, slice of sweat trickle down the length of his back, never mind that it was December and Avonlea a picturesque white landscape behind them—so nervous was he.

But laugh he did, if a bit too animated in motion, head thrown back, eyes squinted shut and his chortles a tad too loud.

"Nowhere nefarious," he assured, when the laughter died down. He released a shaky breath, eyes downcast even as he whispered with utmost sincerity, "I promise."

"I trust you," she replied, something in her countenance softening when he looked up and was met with wide and unguarded eyes.

Had he forgotten how to breathe? They were so _blue_ , as ambient as the sky and as depthless as the ocean. He should have lost his breath, drowning as he was in her immeasurable gaze, but all he felt was calm—like the first ray of sunlight after a storm passed or mornings wherein the world was only beginning to wake, perfectly hushed and still, the land waiting to take its first breath except it wasn't the Earth waiting, not really, but _him_.

So he held her stare and he breathed, in and out, quick but deep—because this was Anne and her very presence gave him oxygen, gave him _relief._

The kind he had been unable to achieve in the long weeks he undertook this project. For it may have only been six weeks, but it was a most arduous six weeks, even with Bash at his side.

"You're crazy, Blythe," the man exclaimed, his accent thickening the way it did whenever he was emboldened by something. "You ain't know nothin' about building a house!"

"It's not a house," Gilbert argued. "At least… not _exactly_."

"So you keep telling me," he replied, voice laced with sarcasm.

"It's a tree house," clarified Gilbert in still bright tones, as if doing so would also lighten Bash and therefore make him more agreeable. "A _grounded_ tree house."

"If the word 'house' is in it, then it's a house." Bash turned a quizzical frown at him. "And why call it a tree house if it's on the ground? Ain't that just a regular house then?"

"It's not—it's in the _woods_ , that's why it's a tree house and—" Bash looked impugned as ever and Gilbert sighed with a familiar exasperation that told of a point that had been argued more than once.

" _Fine._ If it bothers you so much, then let's just call it a club house." He ran a hand through his hair as he huffed, derision dripping from his words. "Does that satisfy you?"

Bash ignored him (though indeed he was agreeable to it). In lieu of an appropriate reply he said, "And whose club is meeting in this tree house that ain't in the trees?"

Though it was posited as a question, the smirk that stole itself across his lips made it known that Bash was within full knowledge of _whose_ club this proposed house was for.

Why this club was needed, Gilbert came upon by pure happenstance. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop that day—Miss Stacy asked him to dust off the classroom erasers for a quick minute before he took his recess. But just as he had finished, he heard her.

Anne.

She was in the middle of a tale, regaling her friends and capturing their ardency if the laughter and the gasps were anything to go by. And who could have blamed them? It was, indeed, a delightful narration—full of pitfalls and flourishes and a happy ending overall, the prince saving the princess and receiving her hand in marriage as his prize.

Though the story was lovely, it wasn't so much the plot that had him enraptured—it was her articulation. Gilbert leaned against the wall directly beside the window and sighed as her ever impassioned and effervescent voice wafted through, carried by the wind. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him, the comfort it (she) provided so lavish he felt as if he could wrap it around himself like a blanket.

(Wishing he could wrap himself around _her_ )

He could have listened to her weave sagas all day. Every word out of her mouth only filled him with more certainty—he would lay himself at her beck and call _forever_ , if it meant he could be a safe haven for her thoughts.

For now, he contented himself with _this_ —sitting beneath the school teacher's office casement and, unbeknownst to the subject in question, mooning at Anne's voice. It was then that he discovered her grievance.

"You always tell such wonderful stories, Anne!" Diana praised amidst her applause. "Although, it is awful…"

"What is, dear?"

"Our tree house," she revealed amidst melancholic tones, "I do miss it!"

"So do I," Ruby sniffled and he could hear the swish of garments as her friends shuffled closer to comfort her, no doubt. "Our meetings now are all too brief. I long for the days we each had time to share our writings with each other, so that we may improve upon them. Now, there's barely enough time to sit through an entire story at all!"

"Who would do such a thing?" wondered Diana. "We never even found out."

"Don't despair," Anne soothed. "The world is a beautiful place, still, don't you think? Although…" her voice lowered then, lamentation turning her next proclamation into a living thing, so burdened was her tone. "There _are_ those who would see it destroyed."

For a heartbeat, no one spoke, lost in memories and experiences he would never know or share. Yet, Gilbert felt their combined anguish like a weight in his chest.

"No matter," Anne brightened. "All the more reason why we mustn't let this defeat us. We'll keep on making this world beautiful by adding _more_ beautiful things to it. The world is what we make of it, after all. But that includes the use of our thoughts and our voices. We must never let others silence us in any way, shape or form—such as the destruction of our tree house. Whoever did that must live in a narrow and lonely world indeed, for the world _I_ intend to make is a festive and magnificent one."

He wanted to stick his head out the window and shout, _"You all ready do!"_

 _You make the world better just by breathing,_ he mused to himself. After which he banged his head against the wall—an action he regretted the moment he did it, for not only did it hurt, but the girls heard the thud of it against the wood and, unknowing of its source, left the vicinity with haste—because, as Sebastian would relentlessly tease, _you moke._

Nevertheless, her words stayed with him. What did _he_ want to make of this world?

 _Everything,_ his thoughts whispered in a frenzy. But hearing Anne walking away from him, again and again, every footstep that took her farther away only urging him to go after her, he wondered what _everything_ entailed—when Anne's elation formed the very center of his being, yet there was an unforgiving sorrow that surrounded her after such a calamity.

He knew much about repairing though nothing of building and still, a seed was planted and every day it grew—feeding off the plans in his head and more, the _dreams_ he had, vague they may be.

(Flashes of images—the rustle of grass and the scent of Spring, peels of laughter and the slightest of touches and all of it so fleeting except Anne, the one sharp, bright effigy amidst the blur of shadows that plagued his sleep)

He wanted to consult with the shopkeepers in the hardware store but he feared the structure of their discretion. It was Avonlea, after all. Should there be a secret, naturally… _everyone_ knew of it.

So Gilbert turned to the one constancy of knowledge he knew—books. He read as much as he could about construction that the small library of Avonlea could provide though granted, it was not many. Still, he equipped himself with what little information he could gather, of nails and frames and beams and squares, and trusted his, and Bash's, instincts for the rest.

Although there was a _moment_ in the three weeks that followed his investigation and purchase of materials, in which Gilbert doubted the vitality of his friend's faculties.

They met in the woods after Gilbert finished with school, as agreed, at the little copse of wood where, they found, the original sanctuary had once lain. Where there was once destruction, now was a blanket of white—pristine and seemingly untouched vastness. A clean slate.

A chance for _new_ life.

They were a little over halfway finished with the club housewhen Bash delivered a most shocking news.

"Mary's pregnant," he said in cursory intonations, as though they were discussing an inconsequential matter as the weather and not a vital turning point in one's life.

Gilbert dropped his hammer, only barely missing his toe, and turned to Bash behind him.

"What?"

"You heard me," he said, his back to him as he persevered with his work. Gilbert looked at him askance.

"When was this?"

"She told me only this afternoon when she come back from Charlottetown. That was why she left, among other things, to visit her son and… the Bog doctor. She wanted to be sure before she told me."

"Congratulations!" he exclaimed though there was an undercurrent of reluctance to his inflection. "Wait," Gilbert shook his head. " _This_ afternoon? And you still came here and told me _after_ an hour of us working?" His reaction, or lack thereof, confused him.

"What gives? Are you…" he scratched his head, hesitant to give voice to his thoughts. But he saw no other way to approach his friend without provoking his anger or ire. "Are you not happy about it? Do you not want the baby?"

Finally, Bash dropped his tools. His breath came out in aggravated puffs of air before him.

"I've never been happier," he said wobbly. "I never wanted anything more in my life."

Gilbert's brows furrowed when Bash turned to him, his face pale and sickly.

"Bash…"

"You must be confused. I don't blame you. I say them words but look a fright."

Gilbert was about to protest when Bash slid down the wall he had put up mere moments ago. Thankfully, the structure held (in his innermost musings, Gilbert supposed it was a good test of strength). Bash remained reticent so in lieu of speaking, unsure as he was of what to say that would in any way comfort him, he sat beside him and joined in the silence instead—his shoulders bare and ready to hold the weight of his friend's burdens should he choose to share them.

"My mom, she do her best for me yeah? She do with me what she thought was good. She take care of me in my early years but when I was old enough to work, she made me leave home. It was for my own protection she said, and I never begrudge her for it."

"So… what does that have to do with your baby?" Gilbert asked softly, not understanding but desperately wanting to. It pained him to see Bash, his ever confident and self-assured friend, appear so wracked with uncertainty.

"That woman I go home to, my mom?" he sighed. "She is a stranger to me. Yet she's all I ever known. What if…"

Understanding dawned on Gilbert's features. He gaped at him.

"Now who's acting like a moke!"

Bash glared at him. Gilbert glared back.

"Are you telling me, that you're afraid you'll be a bad father to your baby? Is that what you're saying?"

No words of agreement or denial passed his lips but his silence was all the answer Gilbert needed. He shook his head in disbelief.

"You have nothing to fear, Bash. You have a loving wife to come home to and in nine months' time, a child too!" Gilbert swallowed his sheepishness. "And you have… me." Tentative as he was saying it, he meant it. "I know you'll be a wonderful father because—because of how you've looked after me, ever since we met. If there's anything I learned from you in the short time we've known each other it's that when it comes down to it, I know I can always count on you. _Always_. You can fail at everything but if your child knows that much, then you have succeeded above all else."

He took a deep breath.

"Besides, you should know better than anyone that your past doesn't define your future. You told me you were once a slave, that your family never set foot outside that plantation. But look at you now! A free man. A proprietor with a plantation of _his_ own!"

Gilbert placed a hand on Bash's shoulder.

"Look up, my friend. You are no longer on a ship with an aimless destination. The ground is solid beneath your feet and," a certain redhead's words echoed in his mind. "there is a whole world before you to forge anew."

There was a gleam in his eyes that Gilbert respectfully ignored as Bash turned to him, an invigorated smile forming about his lips.

"What do you know," he mused, clapping a hand to his back in return. "We'll make a man out of you yet, Blythe." Gilbert smiled and it was full of pride until Bash added, "As long as there aren't any needles around, at least."

"It was _one time!_ "

When the ribbing and chortles faded, Gilbert stood and stretched a hand out to Bash. He too, stood.

"Go home to your wife, Bash." The man objected but Gilbert would hear none of it. "You have behaved abominably today and Mary deserves an apology. Talk to her," he urged. "I'm sure she will understand."

"Thank you," Bash said. It was two words but it encompassed all emotions.

That night, after a heartening supper and equally heartening conversations and felicitations, Gilbert dreamed.

He dreamed every night of the same, bleary figures though this night, there was a change. Anne stood out, her blue eyes intimate and clear as ever. But there were others too, blue eyes like Anne's but also not, a little lighter though no less familiar. He could hear laughter, radiant and wonderful, and a happiness so overflowing he could feel it bubbling in his chest, overwhelming him until—

He woke up, giggles spilling from his lips.

The sun was on the verge of rising, the first sign of its magnificence manifesting in linear streaks of oranges and pinks piercing an indigo sky. He managed only a few hours sleep, having gone back to the club house after supper and working beneath what meager moonshine passed through the trees. The dream was all ready fading as it was wont to do every morning and yet, the ebullience that characterized the vision remained. He felt exhilarated, there was no possible way he could have gone back to sleep. So he took the lantern he used last night with him once again and went back to work, thankful that there were such things as weekends.

Bash brought him breakfast, courtesy of Mary, around mid-morning, having guessed where he had gone.

(Gilbert hid a smile. How Bash could ever doubt his skill as a father remained beyond him though he was glad he would be around to remind him, if he ever felt uncertain)

The two worked tirelessly but pleasantly—trading between easy silence and affable banter, reclaiming the companionship they had shaped those early days in the bowels of the ship.

They worked as long as they could and sang as loudly as they wanted and this time, no fireman was around to stop them.

And when the final wood was lain, any loose nail hammered and the last coat of paint dried, they both stood back and surveyed their work.

"She will love it," Bash soothed.

He nodded—and actually believed it. It was a lovely, if not quaint, box of a place with an area of 12 feet, a height of six and a singular roof and chimney for their makeshift furnace—enough room for Anne and all her friends he hoped. At its entrance wall was a door with two windows at either of its sides and three more windows at the remaining exterior walls. He wanted them to have plenty of light to read and write by. It was essential to any storytellers' club, so sure was he. He even splurged on the windows, installing glass panes so they could gather, even on the days that felt too cold. He put a small porch out front, framed by balusters and surrounded by railings, so that they might have a little receiving area to dust off either snow or dirt, depending on the weather. On one side, he placed flower boxes where they might build a garden should they choose it.

Outside, he was aware it looked rather humble—he merely refurbished the wood. Inside however, was something else.

When the framework was finished and the walls put up, Gilbert found himself undecided on how to proceed with the interior. Function, he could easily provide—shelves for Anne's books, stools and a cupboard for their knickknacks. _Designing_ a place (a _home_ , his brain shouted at him) for Anne and her friends was rather beyond his skillset. So, he enlisted Diana and Cole for this next venture, all the while swearing them to secrecy. It was easier for Cole, who lived in Charlottetown. He sent multitudes of drawings and artworks directly to his address. Gilbert himself had particular favorites, one of which was a typographic painting of a quote in Cole's elegant hand:

" _It's not what the world holds for you. It's what you bring to it."_

It was inspiring—an exact echo of his thoughts throughout this entire process. Yet, nothing could have produced in him a greater awe than seeing _Anne Shirley-Cuthbert_ at the bottom of the quote in big, looping letters, just as it _should_ be.

Cole brought many depictions, real and imagined—the schoolhouse, the sprawling grounds of Camelot, the farmlands that made up Avonlea; portraits of his classmates, either together or separate but all similar to the subject, all beautiful… though one stood out to him.

It was a portrait of Anne, lovely in its likeness, for it was her very nature on paper. It was a portrayal of her, bent over a piece of paper where she, no doubt, transcripted a grandiose adventure. He admired Cole's talent, for he captured her essence—the excitable luster of her eyes, the serene smile that twisted her lips.

A part of him wondered if it was wrong to keep it, though he needn't worry. Beneath that picture was another. A profile of Anne, her shorn hair only sharpening the features of her face he liked best, which, in all honesty, was _everything_ —the proud jut of her chin, every mark and freckle adding to her singular beauty, the strength of that gaze, but the understanding too, that she would not judge you whatever your faults may be but _celebrate_ them… it was an admirable depiction.

It was perfect.

There was an accompanying note from Cole.

 _I thought you might want this. It's yours to keep._

Though he was alone, he flushed as he read it. Then, he rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. Quiet as he appeared to be, Cole did always love his intrigues. Still, he returned both to its envelope before framing all the rest, hanging them onto the walls (painted a pastel pink at Diana's behest, suggesting that if Anne couldn't wear pink, she could at least be surrounded by it) with a reverent touch.

Diana added other stationery and ornaments, white muslin curtains to the windows, cushions for the stools, coverlets and other objets d'art.

The effect was instantaneous, transforming the room from a serviceable space to one of comfort and warmth, a proper place to sow effulgent memories, memories to accompany the shining maiden who would linger here.

It was the sanctuary he intended it to be.

One he was sure would bring its recipient pride. But, walking up the path to Green Gables, he was struck with a wild anxiety. What if he was wrong? What if he was being too presumptuous and she took offense? Knocking on her door, waiting for her to answer, he was gripped by cold.

"I need to show you something," he said. "Can I take you somewhere?"

She raised a skeptical brow at him, and he laughed though it was the very last thing he wanted to do. Still, after her pronouncement, she did not deny him. She went to fetch her coat and boots and when she returned, he held her gaze with what he wanted to convey but was unable to, afraid of her rejection, afraid of scaring her away… the slightest part of him might even fear her acceptance.

Nevertheless, he hoped she sensed the gratitude in his stare, that she held him in such high esteem.

 _I won't let you down._

They strolled, content to let Mother Nature do the talking, _and_ their silence. It spoke volumes—ripe with things unsaid.

Side by side, they walked, fingers brushing with every sunken step they took in the snow. He imagined stretching his hand, his fingertips bridging into her space. He envisaged them wrapping around her own, one by one, first their pinkies, then their ring fingers, till their fingers were entwined.

And they were one.

But what were the fates of flights of fancies, than to fly away?

His hand remained on his side, as hers did. It wasn't until they reached the edge of the wood that Anne announced, "I know this path."

Gilbert smiled. "I was wondering when you would take notice."

"Gilbert?" she whispered.

He considered asking her to close her eyes. But that would mean leading her, and leading her required… touching her and oh, he just _knew_. If he did—

He wouldn't let go.

Tempering his impetus, he urged, "Maybe you should go ahead of me, if you know it so well."

Breathless, she did as he bid, treading a path as familiar to her as her own soul. He followed in a measured gait, though he was antsy for her reaction. Still, the moment felt delicate. It felt _intimate_ , like it was a private affair he shouldn't have been privy to.

When he reached the grounds of the club house, Anne was stood just outside the deck, staring up at the structure.

"Anne?" he murmured, her silence having grown disconcerting. "Have I actually rendered the assiduously aureate Anne speechless?" he tried to kid.

"You did this?" she continued in soughing murmurations, disregarding his attempts at levity.

Gilbert ran a hand at the side of his head.

"Not _alone_ ," he was careful to emphasize. "Bash was plenty helpful with the construction. A-and Diana—" he was babbling. Why was he babbling? Someone needed to stop him. "—she arranged everything inside, the decor and the paint color. Of course, the pictures are all Cole. I swore them to secrecy because I—"

"But it was your idea?" she insisted. He felt himself blush under the weight of her stare.

"Yes," he whispered, averting his eyes no matter how much he wanted to hold them to her.

He wasn't sure what it was he would see there. He couldn't bear the unfettered hope that it would ignite in him if it was favorable. He wanted to be with her, wanted _her_ , but only when she was ready and not a moment too soon.

When some time passed and no words were exchanged, he inclined his head towards the house and said without looking at her, "It doesn't seem like much from the outside, but you should take a look inside."

He heard the door swing open. When it shut, only then did he feel like he could breathe. All he wanted was her happiness, yet her lack of response, positive or elseways, nagged at him. The effortless companionship of earlier had dissolved within him, and all his distress returned with a vengeance.

He had overstepped, he was _sure_ of it. Perhaps she had found a new location and had no need of this one. Or worse, the plain display of his affection (for there was no other way to interpret such a gesture) unsettled her for he had misread her all these years and in truth, she felt _nothing_ forhim and—

Had Gilbert been paying the slightest attention to the world outside his brain, he would have noticed the redhead charging towards his direction. But wrapped up in his botherations as he was, he did not see her coming.

Anne reached out a hand to his shoulder with the intention of kissing his cheek in quiet gratitude, he surmised later on when he looked back at this moment. As it was, with Gilbert looking up at the abode, he did not sense her till she was upon him, reaching up just as he leaned his head down to look at her.

She was so _close_ —every freckle magnified, her blue eyes enrapturing, restoring in him that magnificent tranquility despite how his heart thudded. So hard and so quick, it was nearly painful. Could she hear it? He hoped not. But perhaps his breathing gave him away, coming out in loud gasps he would have been embarrassed about were she not also reciprocating them, her sweet sighs like liquid against his wanting and thirsty lips, a remedy to his bruised soul.

Her mouth landed at the corner of his, not quite a kiss but not quite a _not_ kiss either. It was the only part of them that touched, apart from her hand on his shoulder which she did not rescind. Some section of his brain blared that this was a most inappropriate position, especially if anyone happened upon them. Yet—

There was no one there. No one but the two of them.

 _So,_ so _close,_ he thought. Every breath she expelled his to take in, a drop of wine in the water. He could kiss her, it would take just a slight incline of his head, a turn of her cheek. _So easy,_ he contemplated. Could it really be? He leaned his forehead against hers.

She did not pull away.

He lightly ran his nose along the bridge of hers before softly nuzzling at her cheek. Still, no objections.

She closed her eyes.

"Anne," he murmured, lips brushing hers. "Anne, Anne, Anne…"

He was going to do this. _He was going to do this?_

God, but... how could he ever think to do anything else, ever again?He, too, closed his was only this. There was only _Anne_.

The intimations that afflicted his sleep flooded back to him, for once, in daylight, revealing themselves to him with stunning clarity. His hand woke from its immobility, inching towards her own so that he might finally interlace them, when—

"Anne!"

And the spell was broken.

The world rushed in, the sounds and smells, but not the hues. The landscape seemed bleak—Anne the only color amongst the unending backdrop of white.

She turned from him and he took a step back, the space between them teeming with possibilities and things that might have been.

"Over here!" she called to her friends, though her eyes remained locked onto his. He had forgotten he arranged for them to meet at this hour, so that they could see for themselves the finished product.

Lower, she began, "I…"

"I know," he returned, when she trailed off.

And he did.

"Wait for me?"

With the noon sun high in the sky, the snow glimmered, and so did Anne—as she raced towards her friends and the club house.

But the Anne he saw dashing away was unchanged yet, also different. Taller… a little weathered around her eyes though that youthful gleam remained ever present. She was not alone, but joined by the pitter-patter of feet and the unrestricted laughter that only a child could emit. Specifically, these two children, one with his eyes and nose but his mother's auburn locks, and a girl, arms outstretched as they reached for him, their two ebony heads bent together in mischief. The house before him too had transformed though he knew in his bones, it was also built by his hands. This one was bigger, with a porch wrapped around it, a tiled roof and dormer windows and an abundance of rooms, for the children they had and the family they continued to grow.

This was what his dreams had been telling him—the _future_ they could have, if he could be patient, if he could wait.

Before Anne disappeared after her friends into their brand new meeting place, she turned back to him.

She smiled.

It was small, but so full of meaning, gratefulness spanning its breadth. Gratefulness and… the blossoming of new feelings. _Stronger_ feelings.

(Or were they always there, perhaps? Merely waiting for a little sun to shine on them, a little room to grow and bloom)

 _I love you_ , he wanted to tell her. But by the way she lingered, he wondered if she all ready knew.

And so he _would_ wait, for as long as it took. She was worth it. They would have a lifetime, he was determined, a lifetime in which he would be sure of her love, a lifetime spent happy to earn it. For any world would be heavenly. Any world would be _better_.

So long as Anne was in it.

* * *

 **AN: I'm not sure if I'm satisfied by this, but I wanted to try something new. This will be the first and last time I do a Gilbert-centric fic I think hahaha. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed it!**


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